


Shouldn't Dream of It, Dearest

by YouLookGoodInLeather



Series: We're A Special Kind of Disaster Zone, Darling [2]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, Domestic Fluff, Drunkenness, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secret Relationship, Sharing a Bed, Veterans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-02 14:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12728124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouLookGoodInLeather/pseuds/YouLookGoodInLeather
Summary: Cass and Az are both Special Ops and tough as steel, and sure, it's fine if they're fucking, but feelings should never be on the table. Too bad Cassian is weak for pretty boys with fancy words and Az just needs his fancy coffees.[Chronological Prequel to Couldn't Dream of It, Dearest]





	1. It's Just Fucking

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, this was supposed to be serious, but fell into fluffy oblivion. There'll be some angst, but domestic Cazriel is my lifeblood so, I hope you enjoy. As always with these two, written with a glass of wine and an aching heart.

At last, they’ve been given home leave, and there’s only one place you go to (Rita’s) and only one thing you do (drink) on home leave.

Good thing both Cass and Rhys are built like a brick shit house and are six foot eight and six foot two respectively, chiseled and sculpted by the grueling training regimes and missions of the special forces. Otherwise, months without alcohol would leave them royally fucked on nights like these. But Cassian is no flimsy lightweight, no way. That he is slumped against Rhys mumbling nonsense is a momentary aberration

Maybe those six back-to-back jaeger bombs were a mistake.

Yes, he should be embarrassed. After all, Rhys is technically his superior, even if the lines of the hierarchy get a tadge blurred in the departments they’re involved in. After all, Rhys is the infiltration specialist, so yeah sure Cass might still only be a Sargent gunning for a Captain’s position, but he’s killed a lot more people than the other. What Rhys does exactly, he doesn’t like to ask. He knows enough about the specifics to wish he didn’t know anything at all.

“Sober up, dingus,” an equally tipsy Rhys scolds him, flicking his forehead. “I told you, there’s a new recruit I want you to meet.”

“Ah yes!” Cassian cheers, grabbing a plastic cup that is not his and raising it in celebration. “Your new _prodigy_. I can’t believe I’ve been replaced, you fuck boy. Just tell me I’m still the pretty one. He’s not prettier than me, right? I’m still your favourite.”

“You’ll always be a favourite, Cass. Just- just try to be nice to him. He’s still settling in and- well. Not everyone makes friends as easily as you. Oh, there he is. Wave, Cass.”

The new recruit turns out to be pretty. _Too pretty._ Perhaps even prettier than Cassian, not that he’d ever admit to such a monstrosity. He’s a slip of a thing, a boy really, barely a man, all hollow eyes and razor sharp cheekbones, skinny as a whip and dressed like he never got out of his goth phase. He does not look like someone who zoomed through the ranks of the army so fast he shouldn’t legally even be in the special forces, let alone its rising star. He looks better suited to being a film star than a murderer, and Cass really hopes he’ll hate him.

Introductions are sloppy. Rhys has to yell them over the dropping of the bass and the screaming of drunken dancers. By the end, Cassian thinks he’s called Ariel or Azazel or something stupid and pretentious, which makes sense looking at that hipster-fucked-a-goth-and-had-an-unfairly-hot-lovechild face. It’s too much to look at and know that in a few weeks he’ll be killing people in a battlefield just like he's done countless times. He orders another round of shots, then another.

Soon he’s vomiting on pretty boy’s shoes.

“Don’t- Don’t need your fuckin’ help, you- you damn _pretty boy_ ,” Cass garbles, arm slung over those lithe shoulders that he’s been checking out all night. “Fucking kid. How fucking old are you, anyway?”

“Nineteen, so next time, can you _not_ punch everyone who hits on me and yell ‘pedophile’? I can’t believe you got us kicked out. Rhys warned me you were trouble incarnate.” Stupid pretty boy; Of course he uses big fucking words like ‘incarnate’ with those stunning lips of his. Plus he's five years younger than him and already looking to be promoted above him. Cass feels obligated to kiss him just to shut him up, but he’s kinda worried he’ll vomit on him again, so maybe not.

“Rhys don’t know a damn thing. Doesn’t know- Can’t believe you’re his new favourite. I’m pretty too, you know. Just- just ‘cos you’ve got fucking Jared Leto bone structure don’t mean shit.”

“Don’t you fucking call me Jared Leto.”

“Desi Jared Leto.”

“Fuck you.”

“Too drunk to get it up, babe.”

Pretty Boy Desi Jared Leto who’s maybe called Ariel and is maybe a mermaid or something stares at him for a moment, before breaking out cackling. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“Says the moody goth kid.”

“Hey, we moody goth kids are the zeitgeist now. Haven’t you seen Twilight?”

“The fuck,” Cassian says in deadpan, “is a zeitgeist?”

He shouldn’t be, but by the time Desi Leto has dragged him back to his apartment he’s grinning and overflowing with snickers. “You know, you’re kind of super cute,” he tells DJL. He gets a death glare in response, but also a blush, and well, isn’t that just the cutest shit he’s seen all his life.

“Fuck you.”

“I told you, too drunk to-”

“Yeah, that much is obvious. Shame though.”

At first Cassian is about to shit chat him back, but then he realises what’s been said and he’s crimson and all wiggles in the base of his stomach. Little Mermaid chuckles at what must be obvious on his face. “You know, for someone Rhys told me is a massive flirt, you blush real easy.”

“‘s hot,” Cass mumbles by way of excuse, fixating on his feet because there’s some punkass kid messing with his head and he feels like a dopey fool. “Way cooler when I’m sober.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You should have met me sober. You should _meet_ me sober. Coffee. Yeah. Okay, we’re grabbing coffee together, tomorrow. Then you’ll see how cool I am.”

He’s pretty sure the Little Merman isn’t real, because he’s doing that raised eyebrow thing that fuckers only do in films or cartoons. Combined with his cheekbones, it’s no wonder Rhys thinks he could be deadly. “Alright. I’ll take you up on that challenge. But you’re paying, _Sargent_.”

“It’s a date, _Private_.”

“Maybe don’t tell our commanding officer.”

“Darling Rhys don’t need to know a thing.”

Another eyebrow raise meets his use of ‘darling’, but this time he just shrugs. “What’s the point of joining the army if you don’t get to fuck at least a couple of your gorgeous superiors?”

“Oh, absolutely. After all, I agreed to get coffee with you, didn’t I?” Merman fires right back.

Cassian thinks, like a total drunk, that he might be in love.

 

*

 

Sunglasses, beanie hat, three flasks of black coffee in his rucksack- standard legendary hangover gear. Cass resists the urge to crawl as he trudges over to the address a man called ‘Azriel’ sent him by text, apparently having added his number to his phone his damn self.

This Azriel bastard is way too perky for a hangover, all ‘see you there’ and ‘don’t forget you’re paying’, as if the army pays him jack shit despite the kind of fuck uppery he has to do for them. Fuck this, fuck them, fuck all of it. Who the fuck is this Azriel bastard anyway? Probably some civilian twink he thought had a nice ass whilst plastered and told dumb ‘heroic’ stories to. As if there’s anything romantic about killing people.

The doorbell is too loud, and it’s only some apartment buzzer and Christ, why does he drink? Never again, he vows as he texts Rhys back with a ‘sure’ to the offer to another night at Rita’s. After all, that’s just what you _do_ on home leave. Anything to forget what you do when you’re elsewhere, just following orders.

The door opens to reveal some scrawny scene kid with dumb hair and eyeliner. The twink theory is correct, or so it seems. There’s something about that twisted smirk of his though that is aged beyond his body’s years, and crap, he’s _hot_ for a Gerard Way wannabe. “You look like shit,” Azriel tells him, like he _isn’t_ the sexiest man on the planet. To be fair, he has apparently seen him drunk, so… maybe Cass can’t blame him. He just prays he hasn’t cried on him, or said anything too intimate. He really needs to hurry up and ask Rhys to give him coaching on how to keep his trap shut when under the influence. Gotta love special ops training.

“I look amazing,” he tells the man he half remembers, foggy images swimming back to him. Shit, did he vomit on this guy? Sexy. “I’ll have you know I’ve won ‘best ass’ two years in a row in our division.”

“Too bad for your ego I’m enrolled now,” Az fires back. And with that comes a terrible, terrible realisation that has Cassian really feeling his hangover.

“Shit. You’re the new recruit.”

“I wondered if you’d remember last night.”

“You’re Rhys’ Prodigy? The fuck? Billie Joe Armstrong would make a _terrible_ interrogator.”

“If you’re quite done with your shit musical references,” Azriel tells him in a dry, condescending tone. “You owe me caffeine.”

“Got three flasks of the pure shit right here with me. Hangover cure sorted.”

“Not that crap. I was promised poncy Christmas themed latte bullshit, and I’m not backing down on it. If we’re going to be overseas for the holidays, I’m getting my fill of the advertising ploys whilst I’m here. There’s a Starbucks down the block.” Closing the door behind him, he wraps his scarf thrice around his neck and would look cute as a button were it not for his brooding good looks. “Lead the way, Sargent.”

It’s fucking cold and bloody winter sucks, but Cassian is kind of okay with it as they go off in search of fanciful coffee because it gives him an excuse to grab the other’s hand. “Fucking freezing my fingers off,” he grumbles in explanation, trying to hide his smile when his hand is squeezed in return.

“Might have something to do with you being in a T-shirt and shorts, maybe?”

“Been in Pakistan five months okay, not my fault this country fucking _sucks_.”

Smiling in amusement, Azriel hums, “You probably shouldn’t have told me that.”

“Meh. You’re fast tracked for interrogations training, right? I’ll just say you prodigy-ed it out of me.”

“Yes. That’s totally how it works.”

“Knew it.”

Maybe it’s the cold or the laughter, but by the time they’re at the coffee-shop door they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder and Cass is sorely tempted to bury his frosted face in the warmth of this man’s neck. It’s not his fault it’s so inviting, tucked within the loose confines of the cushy scarf, attached to someone so full of sly smiles and knowing smirks.

And it’s the cold that brings them side by side in the booth, the cold that nestles Az’s head upon his shoulder whilst he blows on his fucking six quid coffee-syrup-sugar-cream-sprinkles special. “You do _not_ look like a guy who would drink that kind of shit,” Cass mutters, feeling bankrupt.

“Don’t you dare tell Rhys my dark secrets.”

“Only if you share.”

What can Cass say? His culinary kleptomania is a problem, but maybe not a bad one when it leads to Az letting him suck whipped cream off of his pinkie and fuck, he likes this guy too much already. Worse, he’s from the division. That’s not how this is supposed to work- sure, he fucks his fellow men and women in uniform, but it’s never supposed to be feelings. Never allowed to be, because everyone understands how dangerous that could be.

It’s just supposed to be sex.

“Wanna come back to my place?” He asks, because he’s got to set this shit straight before someone ends up getting hurt. He expects a no, because this guy looks like he’s pretty and fragile and composed solely of whipped cream lattes, but instead he’s met with a dark, steady gaze.

“Absolutely.”


	2. Cute Guy No. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> contains light angst + nerd shit

Another night at Rita’s, another prime opportunity to get plastered. Only, this time Cass is doing a shoddy job of it; He’s barely had two drinks. Instead of downing shots and taking up half the dancefloor, he’s slammed back against the door of a toilet stall and there’s a man pressed against his stomach.

If he had any sense, it’d be anyone but Azriel. Nothing says ‘it was just a fling’ like fucking someone else the next day. But it’s not, it’s that tiny bastard with his bastard smiles and Cass doesn’t want to think about what that means, what  _ this _  says. Instead he’s feigning outrage at being pinned against a door by someone so damn tiny, and how can anyone look so devious whilst wearing glitter eyeliner?

“You know this has to be just us screwing about, right?” He says, breathless like a romance heroine ravished by her corsets, and why the fuck does he feel like Elizabeth Bennet so much right now? His miniature Mr Darcy looks back at him with that stupid eyebrow quirk of his.

“I would hope I haven’t led you on to think this is anything else.”

“Fuck no. I don’t do relationships.”

“Well, neither do I.”

“Good.”

“Good.” Az reaches his hand down to  _ there _ . “So can we get back to ‘screwing about’, or do you want to talk about your _  feelings _  first?”

They return from the restroom looking obviously dishevelled, but lucky for them, Rhys is off fighting with some douchebag. Something about him hitting on his girlfriend, the usual shit for Rhysand. Knowing him, both her  _ and _  the boyfriend will end up in his bed by morning. And he dared call Cass the flirt.

“Dance with me?” Az asks, still getting his breath back from their visit to the bathroom. He holds a hand out in offering, and Cass isn’t so drunk or dense as to not notice the marks upon it. Burns wrap his fingers, wrist, palm, as if he’s already been afflicted by a war. Cass doesn’t say anything, but takes those warped fingers and brings them to his lips, kissing the knuckles.

“Rhys?”

“It’s just screwing about, right? What’s he going to care?”

“Right,” Cass says into the other’s palm, knowing that this is a terrible idea.

The gayest gay club town, Rita’s is packed most nights and this one is no exception. It is this over-crowding that Cassian blames for how he has to press up close against his partner, chest to chest. Shit. He organised this wrong, should be grinding on him from behind like it’s ‘just screwing’, and should definitely _  not _  be looking into the other’s eyes just like bloody Jane Austen wanted.

Looking up at him, Azriel watches. They’re barely dancing now, barely moving. They’re fixed to the spot on their feet as Az pushes up to tiptoes and kisses him.

 

*

 

“How long’s the assignment?”

“Three months. Knowing this thing though, it could last the whole damn year. Last time we got stuck for an extra two, and that was with me saving the day and nicking enemy vehicles.”

Sighing, Morrigan runs a hand through her hair. “I can’t keep doing this, you know.”

“Please, Mor,” Cass whines, employing the use of his infamous puppy dog eyes. “They worked like a fucking  _ dream _  last time.”

“This could get me fired,” The good doctor informs him once again as she fills out a perscription with the usual false name, yada yada yada. Cass doesn’t care much about the specifics so long as it gets him the drugs and the army won’t find out. “I’ll get struck off the registry if they even see a week of this. I’ve written you up for sixth months but… Do you think you’ll be safe with it, Cass?”

Grinning his best endearing, reassuring grin, Cass nods. “Absolutely. It’s like, barely even a problem with these bad boys.”

“Barely even a problem is still a problem.”

“I’ve got bigger problems over there than me being a little bitch,” Cass says, gladly taking the slip she hands him. Maybe he’d feel guilty, but it was her who proposed this whole set up in the first place, her who told him he had to take these damn things one way or another. “Like you know, getting  _ blown up. _  That they think this shit is anything compared to that is-”

“Cassian,” Mor interrupts. “Promise me you’ll get this looked at. I can find someone who won’t write it up onto your file, whatever you need. But I don’t feel comfortable doing this anymore if you’re just brushing it off as nothing.”

It is awfully tempting to tell her it is nothing, that it’s just something dumb he feels and what the fuck is that compared to what he can do if he has a gun in his hands, but he knows it won’t help. So instead he takes her hand and gives it a fond squeeze. “Promise. Minute I’m back on homeshore, I’ll meet whatever hot doctor you like. Tell them  _ all  _ about my feelings and shit.”

Her answering smile is too sad for his liking, but whatever. Drugs have been acquired, so he’s feeling pretty damn proud. He might love what he does, love getting to actually make a difference and protect the rest of them from the fuck uppery of the world, but the army can be pretty fucking stupid. Besides, his depression isn’t even diagnosed. After all, he-

Shaking off thoughts that aren’t going to help convince Mor that this is the right thing to do, he gets up and gives her a hug. Things were weird between them for a while, back when they were dumb teenagers and did the whole sleep together drunk thing, but nowadays they’re good. They’re twin superstars at Rita’s after all, given how they used to compete to pick up the regular guys and gals. Too bad she’s gone monogamous with some consultant named Andromache.

Not that he’s been much better himself at holding the slutty superstar fort in her absence. His two weeks of home leave were spent entirely entwined with a particular shorty bastard. “Stop looking so worried, Mor. You’ll get frown lines.” He smoothes her wrinkled brow with his thumb and smiles. “I’ll be fine.”

 

*

 

Five months later, he’s due back in the country without an accompanying Rhys at his side; That loser is off in deep cover sleeping his way into this inner circle and that inner circle, the usual. Shoddy excuse if you ask Cassian, who now has to face returning home solo.

Well. Nearly solo.

‘Already back’ Azriel texts him when he messages to see if he’ll be around, not that he cares or anything. Reading his response comes with a truckload of questions Cass resists asking, and a twisting in his stomach that has nothing to do with being on a ferry.

Possessing a true loathing for boats and ships and all kinds of nautical journeys, Cass busies himself on the way back with his phone.

 

_ To: _  Prodigy Bastard

_ From: _  Batman

08.02 - Get kicked out already thn, short stuff?

 

_ To:  _ Cute Guy No. 4

_ From: _  Azriel

08.03 - Completed training early. I’m off till the end of the month, when the rest of the recruits are starting.

 

_ To: _  Prodigy Bastard

_ From: _  Batman

08.10 - Show off

 

_ To: _  Cute Guy No. 4

_ From:  _ Azriel

08.11 - Jealous much?

> Attachment: screenshot4.jpg

 

_ To:  _ Future Murder Victim

_ From:  _ Batman

08.12 - How many cute guys do u know and y am I not sleeping with them instead of ur evil ass?

> Attachment: screenshot12.jpg

 

_ To: _  If I Die He Did It

_ From: _  Azriel

08.14 - They have better taste than me. Are we meeting up when you get here, or did you and your feelings get hurt?

 

_ To:  _ Definite Future Murder Victim

_ From:  _ Batman

08.15 - meet @ mine in 2 hrs?

 

He’s all riled up for vengance sex in the wake of being labelled number four when Azriel shoots back another message. There’s no text, just a little blue heart emoji, which probably means nothing. Definitely means nothing. He probably used the rest of the colours up on guys one through three, but either way Cassian is looking at it every five minutes for the rest of the journey.

When they pull up into port, he sends one back.

Rhys is going to  _ kill _  him if he finds out.

 

*

 

“How many Britney CDs can one person own?” Az asks in disbelief. Cass would be offended were he not still chilling in post-coital bliss.

“Don’t be jealous of Britney, bitch. You put out a CD, maybe I’ll buy yours too.”

“What, so you can tell your next hook up he looks like white Azriel? No thanks.”

Though Az’s back is to him, he’s pretty sure he’s smiling. He’d go over and check, but the view from the bed is too good to pass up on. How someone can double in width in the space of five months, Cass doesn’t know. He’s still the bigger of the two, can still win when they wrestle and play wrestle and flip one another over on the bed, but he doesn’t feel half so bad about it anymore.

Az is saying something but he doesn’t catch it, distracted by the whorls of burn scars that snake up those hardened arms, paint his shoulders, remembering the feel of them beneath his touch. “Earth to Cassian? I was asking if you wanted to-” He doesn’t get to finish, because Cass is there beside him kissing him and it feels like something more than it should be. “What was that for?” Az huffs, but shit, he’s blushing again and yeah, definitely the cutest shit Cass has ever witnessed.

“You’re adorable when you’re embarrassed.”

Glowering, albeit with a wicked smile, Az motions to kiss him back before sneakily switching, using his vulnerability to shove him back down on the bed. “I’ll have you know I’ve been deemed so deadly I’m on six country’s government watch lists already. And that’s just the official ones. Adorable I am  _ not _ .” He is definitely adorable, but also super fucking hot as he straddles Cass’s lap and rakes his fingers in pseudo-threat up his chest.

“Awh, look at you. Like a pocket-size Ezio.”

He has a whole host of other, more embarrassing references to make, but he never gets the chance. Az has him flipped and pinned face down in the sheets in seconds, and he can’t breathe from laughter and Christ, this man is  _ strong _ . “The fuck did they give you over there, Steve Rogers? And where can I get some?”

“You know I don’t understand half the shit you come out with, right?”

Now this, this is a tragedy. Throwing his assailant off of him, Cass sits up and grabs him by the shoulders. “No. No, I’m afraid you cannot be in the army without knowing about the Super Soldier himself. Captain America? And his shield? The  _ first avenger _ ?” All he gets is a blank stare, and he can see the bastard is definitely thinking of doing his eyebrow thing again. Sighing, he gets up and goes to rummage about in his closet.

Az watches on in silence as he drops a box down on the bed beside him and rummages through, throwing out various volumes of the comics inside. “Okay, right. You want to start with this run because yeah it kinda sucks by the end but it’ll familiarise you with the characters. Then you probably want Stan Lee’s run with Kirby because, like, standard.  _ The Secret Empire _  is fucking golden, so yes. The  _ No More _  arc is fucking depressing but epic so we’re adding that in.”

“You know I do actually have a job, right? I’m not back early because I was dismissed.”

“Oh please. This is nothing. Besides, it’ll help stop you finishing ‘early’ like a bloody over achieving wanker. Oh, and obviously you’ll need to read Bucky’s new run. Oh shit, and the  _ Old Man Logan _  arc with Deadpool, because the merc with a mouth is a total ledge.”

By the end of it, he’s handing half of the box’s contents over to the other, topped off with the new film discs. Az stares down at the pile, dumbfounded. “Wow…” He murmurs. “You’re a complete, fully-fledged, in-way-too-deep nerd, aren’t you?”

“There is _  nothing  _ nerdy about true love,” Cass snaps back. He’s waiting for another insult and to defend the fictional love of his life, but instead of scathing words he just gets this look. It’s awful, all soft around the eyes and affectionate smile.

And that’s when he knows he’s well and truly fucked.      


	3. Home-shore War

England is still a freezing hellpit even in spring, a fact felt all the more acutely for the fact that for Cass, dressing up involves dressing down; Army life gives him awe-striking muscles, so yes, he intends to use them. It’s stupid that he’s wearing his best clothes given what they’re about to do, but it’s not his fault that Az is way too fashionable for some punkass kid. As such, he’s standing out in the drizzle in a tank top emblazoned with ‘Suns Out Guns Out’, which feels like it’s taking the piss.

Irony is sexy, right? But since when did he care so much about being sexy? Not to boast, but it’s always been effortless for him. Growing up in foster care and worse taught him fast how to smile for the right faces that needed pleasing. Before that, his mum made sure that he was no stranger to the world of the sexual. Not that she didn’t try to keep him from it, but she’d had him young and she had still believed in love.

Those had been his first male role models, the men he’d find dotted about the house on drowsy mornings, wrapped in towels and last night’s breath of alcohol. It was how he’d first known he wanted to be a soldier. His mother had a type; Just like his father, her one night stands were all military men, all shared a kind of dialect and way of standing. He’d liked it, how they held themselves with broad shoulders even if they were physically slight, how they’d told him to call them ‘sir’. They were the fleeting presence of order in his mother’s household, before she too vanished off elsewhere.

But now he is moping. He blames it on the rain, or on the fact that he looks so much like he is trying too hard. He even gelled back the two weeks worth of unshaven growth atop his head. It always feels strange, the buzzcut growing out, like here he really is a different person.

Mid-readjustment of his top, he spots Az rounding a corner. They haven’t seen each other all week, the interrogator assigned to finish his enrollment at the Academy. The bastard never even finished basic training before being scouted for special ops, never even became a real Private before becoming the chosen one.

It’s worrisome that Cass isn’t more jealous.

And of course, his date - not that this is a date, not in the slightest - is showing him up as usual. Swathed in a close-fitting black turtleneck and black skinny jeans, which Cass is sure will reveal themselves to make his arse look stunning, Az looks as much like a ridiculous hipster-assassin as ever. The problem is, his new breadth and stature mean he really pulls it off.

It’s only after a minute of him standing patiently before him that Cass realises he is staring. “Sup,” he says, like the cool, hip and trendy dude he is.

“Nice shirt.”

“It’s _ironic_.” Az looks at him, the water sliding down off of Cass’s disintegrating gelled hair because of course he didn’t bring a fucking coat. He may or may not be pouting.

It doesn’t help his pride that Az cracks and breaks out laughing, failing to suppress it with the back of his hand. “You look like a drowned puppy,” he informs him, struggling to compose himself. So much for being a deadly force of… deadliness. Whatever the fuck all those governments think he is. Cass is convinced he’s nothing more than a well-dressed dork.

“I’ve been here half an hour.”

“I’m five minutes early.”

“Yeah, well,” Cass says, gesticulating wildly to distract from how his cheeks are burning. “It doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

“Which apparently,” Az says, reaching up to run a hand through his sodden hair, wiping the gel out of it, “doesn’t include bringing an umbrella.”

“I’m not carrying around some lameass umbrella whilst we shoot fuckers.”

“They have a cloak room, you know that right?”

“Yes. No. Look, can we stop playing ‘make fun of the moron catching hypothermia’ and go kill people?”

“I don’t know what kind of paintball you’re used to playing,” Az says, but he does so whilst linking their arms together. “But I don’t believe the intention is to murder your competitors.” It’s a little too late, but he hands his own umbrella over and lets Cassian take some shelter. He has no qualms about pressing up against him either, despite how it’s going to get him all wet and pathetic looking like his date. Again, not that this _is_ a date.

By the time they’ve crossed to the paintball complex - which is mercifully _indoors_ \- Cassian is sneezing and almost definitely coming down with something. It makes Az laugh, but more importantly, he promises that if he gets sick he’ll play nursemaid in return for not being thirty minutes early too. He’d be a shit nursemaid, but Cass is still into it. He’s already planning how best to fake a temperature.

The funny thing is, he doesn’t get the impression that Azriel will mind.

 

*

 

“I cannot believe,” Cassian says from the bed, “that our first date ends up in a fucking hospital. Way to kill the mood, Cass.”

“Oh? So this _is_ a date,” Az drawls, looking far too smug considering how his date-not-date could very well be _dying_.

“Not like that. You know. Cool bro date. Bros day out.”

“That is the most straight boy thing I have ever heard anyone say, ever.”

Grumbling whilst they wait for the doctor on call to come check him over, Cass is internally analysing Az’s reaction. As usual, he’s bloody unreadable. Maybe it’s a date to him too, maybe it’s not, not that it is one to Cassian but- fuck it. It’s a date to him. He’s been looking forward to this all week and now he’s landed them in stupid A&E. “You know, it’s just dislocated. I could have set it myself if you weren’t so fussy.”

“I’m not getting in trouble with the General just because I let his new Captain get crippled for life, thanks. Congratulations, by the way.”   

“Gotta try keep up with your prodigy bullshit somehow.”

There should be nothing romantic about the A&E ward, the whole place stinking of shit and disinfectant and ‘The Great British Bake-Off’ rerun on the telly, but Cass still feels touched to have Azriel with him. The loser didn’t have to come with him, didn’t have to drag him here in the first place, let alone stay with him throughout the way-more-than-four hours of waiting to get seen.

It _was_ nice having someone to fetch him coffee though.

“So like, if this was a date,” Cass says without look at him, fiddling with the wires they’ve hooked him up to as if this is anything serious. “Would that… be a good thing? A, ‘yeah sure maybe when we’re not both off kicking butt we could do this again’, kind of thing?”

“‘Kicking butt’. You are such a geek.” It’s not nice to roll your eyes at mortally wounded people, but then Az _is_ a bastard so at least he’s staying in character.  

“And you’re avoiding the question.”

Leaning over on his bedside, Az looks up at him. It’s 11pm and there’s no alcohol or dancing, so instead of glitter eyes and exposed midriffs, he’s all sleepy eyes with his hair falling down in them. Tucked inside the turtleneck, he looks really fucking comfy. Somehow though, Cass is pretty sure the staff won’t approve of him pulling him up to cuddle on the bed with him. Bloody NHS.

“What happened to just screwing around?” Az drawls, aiming for dry condescension but there’s a late night vulnerability in his tone that has Cass curling at the toes.

“If you don’t know that I say a lot of stupid shit I don’t really mean by now, you’re not as smart as you seem, Leto.” He’s aiming for comedy, but it’s tricky when his stomach seems to be breeding angry honey badgers in it. “Or. I don’t know. I meant it then. It’s still the most sensible idea.”

“So that’s why,” Az says with a rueful smile. “God forbid you _do_ the most sensible thing.”

At least he’s not saying no outright, but Cass still feels the creeping panic edging up his throat. He shouldn’t have said anything. He’s high on the pain, that’s what it is, saying even more dumb shit that he doesn’t even mean. He’s about to say just that when he gets beaten to the chase.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Cassian. Once I get put on duty, who knows when we’ll be in the same country at the same time again. It’s not like you’re leaving the army any time soon, right?”

“Not till I’m ninety-five. Not if I don’t get blown up first, anyway.”

“Exactly. And I mean. It’s probably the best job for me. I’m good at it. So dating isn’t…”

“Yeah. I get it.”

Spotting the doctor - an emaciated looking student who looks about as ruined as Cassian feels right now - Cass forces back his signature grin. “It was just the pain talking. Like, I know that the whole dating shite and war don’t mix. Moment of madness. Sorry.”

“It’s not madness, you dork,” Az murmurs, soft and quiet because the doctor is here reeling off the usual spiel and this time neither of them care. “We just don’t live those kinds of lives. Not those kinds of people.”

Cassian has never wanted to be ‘those kinds of people’ before, never, ever wanted those kinds of lives. Those were his mother’s dreams, the dreams of people who didn’t crave action in their bones out of fear of what might happen if they stop.

Yet, for the first time, he envies them.

**Author's Note:**

> bonus question: my use of the word 'Desi' comes from a podcast I listen to by two girls who describe themselves as 'Desi Geek Girls', but Wikipedia states there's some discourse around it. If you feel it needs changing, feel free to let me know.


End file.
